


Stardust

by CozyCryptidCorner



Category: Xenophilia - Fandom, exophilia - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-19 01:49:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22136596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CozyCryptidCorner/pseuds/CozyCryptidCorner
Summary: Veronica left him intending never to see him again, but what a fucking coincidence that he's here looking for her services as a skilled pilot. The universe issucha small place.***If you are reading this on any third party apps (such as unofficialao3), or on any platform besides AO3, Tumblr, and Wattpad, then you are reading stolen work. I do not give consent for my stories to be published or pulled elsewhere.***
Relationships: Human OC/Alien OC, Human/Alien
Comments: 1
Kudos: 31





	Stardust

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s a short taking place directly after one of the comics. I think that I’m going to continue writing/drawing this in short little bursts whenever I feel like it, but there isn’t going to be some overarching storyline. Think of this as kind of a beta story for the universe I’m working one. Please enjoy this story of a kickass pilot, her unruly cat, and her dumbass soulmate. 
> 
> For anyone not on my tumblr, I've been making my own little galactic universe so I have a bank of aliens to write about when I want to without having to make something up each time. If anyone's interested, here's a [little list](https://cozycryptidcorner.tumblr.com/post/190001722664/apologies-for-my-atrocious-handwritingspelling) of what I've come up with so far, complete with illustrations and character design.

#

Blood roared in her face as Veronica tries to come up with some way to say _get fucked_ to her boss without also somehow not getting fired. But her boss is right, the payment on this job is high, and she needs to goddamn money. Isn’t that just like a fucking _Kepler_ to pull such a manipulative tactic, right when she isn’t in a position to say no? And of course _he_ would be the one behind it, asking for _her,_ specifically. Still, it all boils down to the commission price attached to the work, and oh boy, there are six whole figures there. That’s enough to pay off over half of her accrued debt, god _fucking_ damn it.

“Fine,” Veronica grinds out, “but I’m taking the _Black Sabbath,_ not one of those pretentious aurora class vessels for the other dignitaries.”

Since her boss seemed to have expected more of a fight, they seemed satisfied to let her have that, thankfully. No more arguments. Veronica takes her thin, plexiglass phone out of her pocket and downloads the necessary route, looking it over. “This jumps all around the galaxy, Skip. What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Follow it?” Skip shrugs, their movements exaggerated and large. “That’s why it’s so expensive, did you think you were getting paid for a single, cushy jump?”

“But-” Veronica is _so very close_ to tearing her hair out, but she lets out a growling sigh, allowing the argument to die in her chest. This is fine. _Just lock yourself up in the cockpit the entire time, he doesn’t have to see you._ “Alright. I’ll go fuel up and pack a bag.”

“Atta girl,” Skip goes back to whatever they were doing prior, opening their holographic computer. “Keep your chin up. And _be nice_ to the Keplers, more customers like this and you’ll be paid off in no time.”

“Don’t sound so eager to get rid of me,” Veronica retorts as she steps outside of the office, looking over to where her client sits _oh so innocently_ in the waiting room. Wallpaper designed to look like exposed brick makes the entire office area look ‘homely’ or ‘rustic,’ as you heard the interior designer claim while they went through the room. It’s supposed to give potential passengers the feeling of coziness, though now Veronica barely notices the blaring red anymore except for how much the paleness of his skin stands out against it now.

He looks… well, exactly how she remembers, the light, blond hair smoothed over just so, the robes his people wear so similar in color and cut that he might as well be wearing the exact same one the last time she saw him. There’s something swimming in his magma-orange eyes, a smoldering satisfaction of some kind, like the act he just pulled is merely _step one_ of a twenty part plan. To do what, though, she doesn’t know… _yet._

“Don’t look so fucking smug,” she says, manners be damned. “We leave in two hours, I’ll have Skip send you the port information.”

As she turns around, he tries waving his hand for her attention, which she decidedly ignores. This whole stunt, after all, is just his way of trying to wheedle his way back into her life. If only there was some sort of way to fry off her supposed brain waves that _apparently_ cling to him, maybe then he and the rest of the Keplers will leave her alone, and keep her out of their plots to continuously show how superior they are.

It’s easy to pack since her on-job wardrobe consists mainly of uniform variations. All Veronica really has to do is roll up a couple of shirts, pants, underthings, and maybe throw in her pair of lucky boots because she is _not_ feeling the universe’s good side at the moment. Then she’s ready for the more strenuous part of packing up, getting out a couple of kitty treats from her pantry, making sure to shake the bag good and loud so her little bastard baby can hear it.

And hear it, Rocket does, approaching in the hopes of something tasty. Before it has the chance to notice the kennel up on the counter, Veronica goes for the kill, diving down and grabbing at the stormy gray coat. The fight is honorable, and there is much bloodshed, but Veronica emerges victorious, as usual, managing to stuff the thrashing cat into the kennel for the trip. It’s not like she can leave her cat behind, after all, and being able to use her own ship means that she doesn’t have to worry about paying someone else to keep an eye on the little ragamuffin. No pet fees detracted if the cat only destroys what she owns.

Skip sends Veronica the rest of the details soon enough, though, along with what port she will be leaving out of, and the food ration menu for the trip. All thrilling stuff. Still, it’s Veronica’s job to double-check everything before departure, so she better hop to it if everything has to be on time. With her duffle bag and kennel, she leaves her apartment, giving everything a proper lockdown treatment before heading down to the departures deck of the space station.

There he is, standing out by an observation window, two other Kepler acolytes on either side, all waiting for her approval to board. Without a word of greeting, Veronica scans her permit tag and slips through the airlock, taking a minute to toss her stuff (and her cat) into the private captain’s suite, before going about checking everything twice. Solar fuel? Completely charged. Backup batteries? All juiced up. She goes through the mess cabin, checking the food stores for both the fresh produce and emergency rations, finding everything stocked and ready to go.

Alright, so the Keplers actually have a term for themselves, but like most things in their culture, it’s sort of incomprehensible to the human mind and tongue. After all, their entire way of communication is telepathic, verbal language is nonsensical and useless to them. Feelings and emotions are the way they ‘speak,’ knowing needs and desires without having to use words. Veronica had been privy to what it felt like… just once. Still, they seem satisfied with the nickname Keplers, though, as that was the NASA term for the star system they come from, so that’s just who they are officially for written and spoken use.

Her phone pings as confirmation of luggage loaded in the cargo area gets reported. Satisfied with everything else, she goes over to the cockpit, flicking the _you may now board_ switch on. It should be showing up on the screen over the now open airlock in the departure area, letting in anyone with the proper scan code. After all three passengers report on board, she seals everything back up. There’s a soft rumble on the ground-end of the ship, and a green light starts blinking on her consol, letting her know that the stabilizers have fully retracted and that she is clear for launch.

She lets out one more huffy sigh, says goodbye to her usual sweet solitude of cargo runs for the next four weeks, and punches in the nearest wormhole gate’s coordinates.


End file.
